


How Heavy This Sword

by checkmat3y



Series: The King and his Prince [3]
Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Dirty Talk, Humiliation, Jealousy, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masturbation, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 17:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7370701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkmat3y/pseuds/checkmat3y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steph calls LeBron while on vacation to congratulation him. That's all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Heavy This Sword

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, my fingers slipped and this shit happened. XD I was spurred by a photo posted by Steph's wife of them in Napa.
> 
> BUT TO BE CLEAR, Steph's wife and kids and LeBron's wife and kids are basically nonexistent in this story cause fuck that mess.

It's past midnight in Napa valley, California, and Stephen Curry has been staring at his phone screen for the past half hour. He's meant to be asleep. It’s the first vacation with his family since the all-star break, and he should be relaxing. He’d invited his extended family to stay with him down in Napa for the week after finals, but he’d planned on spending most of the trip celebrating

 

It was only the third day in Napa, and his family has spent most of the time talking about the Cavs and LeBron, saying things like “they got lucky this year” or “the Warriors were injured.” Part of him agreed and wanted to join in, but there’s always a dull ache that's takes up residence in his chest when LeBron is brought up. And sadly, it doesn't seem to be going away any time soon.

 

Thankfully, today was spent at the beach, with little to no LeBron talk, followed by a family barbeque at the house –mansion really –rented for the weekend. Steph excused himself from the movie night to go back in his room, or rather his mini hotel room. Each main bedroom had a living room area and started spiraling into a pathetic, weird depression-like state.

 

Feeling disheartened and useless, Steph lounges in bed watching ESPN recap the Cleveland parade and glances at the name highlighted on his phone: James. Choosing only his last name was another privacy tactic, knowing it would look beyond suspicious if someone got a hold of his phone and found LeBron James in the contacts. But it still meant the same thing.

 

Steph lost track of how many times his thumb has hovered over the name since their last meeting, so close to calling or texting before he stopped himself. It’s pathetic really, particularly pathetic for professional NBA player with a record breaking season to be acting like a teenager about another player.

 

 He squeezes his eyes shut and keeps them that way, counting to ten, then to twenty, waiting for the noise in his head to die down so that he can try and sleep. His phone screen dims and the room is entirely dark, except for the light from the TV screen and the lamp outside his window.

 

There's a three hour difference between him and LeBron right now. He opens his eyes and unlocks his phone, squinting at the time. Since it’s around midnight for him, it’s probably late in the evening for LeBron. Steph doubts that he'd be busy, probably winding down from excessive celebrating, but it doesn't mean LeBron will want to talk – if ever.

He presses the call button before he can stop himself again. He's half-expecting it to ring out anyway, maybe even hoping that it does. He doesn't know what he's going to say anyway. He holds the phone up to his ear and reaches out to turn the TV on mute with the other

 

"You called?” LeBron answers, his voice deep and rough. There's something about the sound that makes the ache in Steph’s chest even worse, breaking open a wound heeled over. The tone of his voice sounds like a question, probably surprised. Why would Steph be calling him? But, it has a hint of arrogance and anticipation to it.

 

Swallowing hard, Steph forces himself to smile, hoping it'll come through in his voice. "Hey, man. “ He pauses a moment to see if LeBron is going to hang up. When he doesn’t, Steph takes a breath and continues. “Just wanted to say congrats. Saw the parade and shit looks crazy." Stupid, absolutely stupid. LeBron kill see through him. He knows he’s not happy for him.

 

Thera’s a soft click on the other end, and Steph almost thinks LeBron has hung up until he hears him speak. "Oh yeah, it still hasn't hit me what actually happened.” LeBron says casually like he’s talking to a friend. He wonders if this is what it’s like to have a normal relationship with him. "Still can’t fucking believe it–over a million people. Shit, man.” Of course Steph can believe. It happened to him too. But since there was only half a million at their parade, he decided not to mention it.

 

“Yeah, I saw that. Shit’s crazy, but I mean–Cleveland waited long enough. No wonder.” Steph continues the casual talk, hoping he work his way out of his the awkward call. He closes his eyes and idly reaches up with his free hand to place it behind his head, holding his head up.

 

LeBron apparently wants to continue the casual talk because he doesn’t drop the subject. “I feel like I'm going to wake up, and it's going to be like game four all over again. I'll be like, shit, we're down 2-1 still.” His voice breaks into a soft laughter, and Steph echoes it with his own.

 

Steph rolls his eyes even though LeBron can’t see them. “Yeah, shit that would be nice. But I’m ready for next year anyways.” He replies, biting his lip. It would be nice for him but not LeBron. He hopes the other doesn’t think he wants to take the win away from him—even though he selfishly kind of does.

 

“Nah, I’ll take this one,” LeBron replies expectantly, a hint of amusement in his voice. Before Steph can retort, he adds,”Ain’t it late over there?”

 

"Yeah," Steph murmurs, pulling his hand out from under his head to rub at his eyes, feeling embarrassed that he's called LeBron at all. "Sorry, I guess I’ll just go."

 

His head starts to feel fuzzy, and there’s a loud pounding in his ears, heart pounding like the turbo just went off.. He pulls the phone down a bit to look at the screen, ready to hang up, when LeBron cuts him off.

 

“Are you alone?” LeBron is always like this, carving through the heart of the matter to get to the point. He doesn't have the patience to turn things over and over in his mind the way that Steph does, never letting the casual talk go on too long. It hurts in a way he doesn’t want to acknowledge.  It’s deep in the wound, under the surface, and Steph is in heavy denial that there’s a lasting wound at all.

 

They're silent for a moment, listening to the static of each other's breaths. Then, Steph clears his throat to answer. “Yeah, I’m just chillin’ in bed,” He replies softly, moving his free hand to rest it on his chest. He’s shirtless in bed in Napa with his family, but he doesn’t want to tell him, knowing it might make LeBron reconsider any sort of conversation if he gets a whiff of Steph lying—technically.

 

LeBron snorts in amusement, surprising Steph. He thought the casual talk was over, but his tone says otherwise. "Why doesn't that surprise me? Fucking kids, always lazy." His tone almost sounds annoyed, but Steph knows otherwise.

 

Steph breathes, lips curving into an honest smile. The first thing he thinks is he’s glad LeBron can’t see his face. “What’re you talking ‘bout? I’m only three years younger than you,” He chuckles, trying not to sound accusatory, more teasing-like.  Steph blinks hard, rapidly; he's so tired and so messed up, but LeBron is being so weirdly nice.

 

“That’s true,” LeBron hums in agreement. “But I’ve still got six ‘professional’ years on you.” Steph pictures LeBron wagging his finger in his face like Dikembe Mutombo. Fuck, he’s right; he realizes and puts his hand over his face. Yet finds himself still smiling. “Yeah, whatever, man. I wasn’t allowed to go straight from high school like you,” He reminds LeBron.

 

Laughter emits from LeBron on the other end, but Steph knows he’s going to mock him. “You think you would’ve been ready?” LeBron points out, and Steph knows he’s right. The rule was definitely a good change. It gave players a chance to play in a more competitive setting before they’re evaluated for draft picks. Even Steph agrees.

 

“Fuck you,” Steph says before he can stop himself. It’s in good humor, but a part of him is annoyed with LeBron’s constant need to tear him down, to remind him who the rightful king really is, who runs the kingdom. Steph might be a king to the Bay Area, but he was a prince in the rest of the league.

 

There’s a pause and shuffling before LeBron replies, and Steph swears he can hear the sound of water rushing. “Isn’t that what you called for?" He asks, but it's not really a question because it doesn't need to be. LeBron knows Steph well enough to follow his train of thought, and he's aware of it. It’s the king tipping up his well-deserved crown, laughing at the prince.

 

Step’s eyes fly open in thought, and he takes his turn picking at the other, unsure what to say and unable to read him. "You didn’t hang up,” Steph replies, swallowing nervously. After all, it goes both ways.

 

"Couldn’t wait to see me, could you?" LeBron accuses him, and Steph can feel his face heat up at the words. His voice is low and omniscient, and Steph really wishes he could see his face. He wonders if LeBron is capable of blushing.

 

"I called you. It’s not like I jumped on a plane,” He blurts out, even though wild horses couldn't make him confess that he was kind of considering it. He’d even looked at plane tickets to Ohio while booking this house for his family.

 

He’s not even sure where this is conversation is going. “I bet you thought about it, hm?” LeBron teases and Steph wants to curse him out, wants to throw his phone at the wall. Apparently, this is where the conversation is going.

 

“I can hang up,” Steph bites out. But he can’t and they both know it, can’t hang up when LeBron talking like this. He has him right where he wants him. "Were you jacking off?" LeBron asks. His voice is a little quieter than before but otherwise sounding like he's asking a casual question.

 

It’s fucking sick that Steph doesn’t hang up right there. LeBron sounds like he’s mocking him until he adds, “Yeah, you want it bad, don't you? Callin’ just to hear me talk and gettin’ off on it."

 

"I wasn’t," He denies, suddenly breathless, becoming aware of how hard he is under his shorts, with LeBron’s voice in his ear and the hope of what they'll do when they're together again. But it’s the name he calls him, shouldn’t let anyone call him. It’s not even true. But Steph groans, banging his head back against his pillow. Fuck. Fuck. He cups his cock over his shorts anyway and palms it slightly.

 

LeBron sighs, as if he knows before Steph even says it. “Nah, but you are now, right? Just hearing my voice got you fucking hard. Fucking touch yourself. Jerk off with me on phone,” LeBron orders, and Steph immediately shoves down his shorts down and is about to jerk himself dry, since he's not at home, until he sees a fancy bottle of lotion on the nightstand.

 

He glances over at the door and then bites his lip, unsure and slightly afraid someone will come looking for him. "Uh, right now?" Steph asks. He's panting and shaking from the realization that this is actually happening, but he reaches over anyways to pump the top of the lotion, squiring the pink liquid into his hands.

 

“You heard me," LeBron says, voice low and heavy-handed. And Steph did, so he obeys. It's filthy, fucking filthy, to use someone else’s lotion and jerk off in their bed. He reaches down and slicks himself up with the lotion. It's not warm, not like lube, and it makes Steph feel volcano-hot inside even before he actually starts stroking himself.

 

 An hour ago his family was talking about how bossy LeBron is with his team and Cleveland, complaining as usual and now here he was taking orders from the man. He holds the phone with one hand and jerks himself with the other, rubbing his thumb around the head of his cock, in slow, circular movements, letting out a deep sigh, his family was only rooms away watching a movie.

 

“I bet your pants are so fucking tight, aren’t they? You never pass up an opportunity to flaunt that tight little ass around, you whore.” Steph blushes but doesn’t respond, his breathing going shallow and brow starting to sweat as he slowly starts to move his hand up and down his shaft. He wonders why LeBron’s mind went there. It’s not often LeBron comments on anything like that.

 

“I bet your dick is hard and throbbing just from hearing my voice,” LeBron taunts him. And Steph doesn’t do anything besides make a soft noise of affirmation. It’s true. “I bet you pretend it’s me, that it’s my fucking hand that you’re rubbing yourself on.”

 

Steph lets his eyes slide shut and imagines himself sitting on LeBron’s lap as the other strokes him. He groans, precome spilling out at the imagery. “You’re a sick fuck, aren’t you?” LeBron growls through the phone. His cock convulses at his words. His chest heaves, he starts to panic. It’s all been a joke, hasn’t it? LeBron must he taping this conversation.

 

“It’s not enough to get fucked by me.” LeBron continues, and this at least calms his panic. He seems to be continuing. “You fucking callin’ me up on offseason, wanna’ jerk off with me on the phone, listening to my voice and pretending like I’m there.” He always knows the dirty talk will get to Steph, knows it always does, and what’s more - it’s true. He does wish it was LeBron.

 

“Yeah,” Steph says, breathier. He fucks into his hand, moving it a little faster, hips swiveling, trying to gain friction.

 

He hears shuffling in the background on LeBron’s end and a soft thud that sounds like he must have grabbed something. He almost comes right there, picturing LeBron getting flustered from the call and having to stop himself from jerking off too. But it could be anything. “And why’s that?” LeBron breaks into his thoughts.

 

“Because I’m a slut,” Steph whimpers. This is something he only ever admits out loud when he’s getting really desperate, wanting attention from LeBron. His gut sinks, but his cock only hardens from the admission. The prince bows to the King, kisses his feet.

 

“And I’m the only one who knows it, huh?”  LeBron chuckles as Steph strokes himself slightly faster. He nods even though the other can’t see it, droplets of sweat dripping down the side of his face. “I bet you like it better when there’s something up your ass. You’re so fucking filthy.” Steph knows LeBron can hear the slick sounds of him stroking himself, must have decided it was high time he got down to business.

 

He’s silent for a moment and takes his hand off his cock, reaching over with his free hand to put the phone on speaker. Fuck his family. Then with the same hand he had on his dick, he reaches over to grab at the lube, coating his fingers in more of it. “I bet that little hole of yours is hungry. Pretend it’s my dick and open yourself up for me.”

 

It shouldn't turn him on, being talked to like that, but Steph is so far past the point of caring. Once he gets enough lube on his fingers, he pulls his shorts down to his ankles with the other hand and pushes himself up onto his knees, hard dick in the air. “Okay," he mumbles, sucking in a gasp as he reaches behind himself to circle his fingers over his entrance. His other hand is still covered in lube, and he grasps his dick firmly with it, stroking himself while he gently eases his index finger inside himself.

 

"Oh, fuck." He hisses, tossing his head back as he pushes his finger further inside. "It's tight..." He wishes to take it back when LeBron laughs on the other end. Steph can feel his face heat up immediately, no doubt blushing red all over. "Never been a problem before," LeBron points out in a friendly tone, only to harden a moment later. “Always so desperate for my cock.”

 

"Yeah,” Steph admits, unable to think of a more colorful response. He wiggles his preoccupied finger experimentally, letting out a quiet moan at the sensation it creates. As if in response, LeBron hums in agreement.

 

Spurred on by the noise, he pulls his finger out, dragging it along his inner walls and adding a second finger carefully. The hiss he lets out this time is louder. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” LeBron replies, and there’s more of the shuffling Steph heard earlier. “Keep fucking yourself, bitch.”

 

Steph isn't sure how to reply. The sensation isn't particularly arousing yet, but he can't say it's overly painful. "I am," He retorts, grunting when he thrusts his digits in a little too forcefully. He builds a steady rhythm, matching the movement of his fingers with the hand on his now aching hardness.

 

He desperately wants to move his hand faster, and LeBron seems to sense it. "Steph," He warns, a hint of a smile in his tone, "Not yet." God, just LeBron saying his name makes Steph draws a whine from his throat, heat trickling from his back to his cock, and he has to stop for a moment as to not come. When he returns to stroking, he doesn't move his hands any faster, instead scissoring his fingers to alleviate some of his need.

 

“I bet you look like such a filthy slut right now, fucking season MVP fucking his own hand to my voice.” He sounds amused but also turned on, his voice a little bit ragged. It's doing all sorts of interesting things for Steph, regardless of the harsh words. “Take a picture for me. Show me that perky little ass you love to flaunt.” LeBron demands and Steph had to stop stroking himself before he comes right then and there. He never thought the other would ask for something like this.

 

"LeBron, I don’t--" Steph argues, cursing himself for the hitch in his voice, but he really can't help it. His face burns with shame and arousal.

 

“Don’t act so fucking innocent. This ain’t your first rodeo,” LeBron says, his voice low, and Steph is quick to obey. Steph can’t remember LeBron ever requesting something like this before. They never sent each other dirty texts or talked on the phone before. Though this shouldn’t come as a surprise considering the last time they were together, he had fucked Steph on a public basketball court, thoroughly stripping him of his dignity.  

 

Steph considers hanging up right then and there until he hears LeBron taking deep, even breaths to assumingly calm himself down. It wills his reservations away and encourages him to obey, despite feeling petulant and unwilling.

 

He lets go of his cock for a moment and awkwardly reaches down for the phone on the bed, fingers pressing into him. "All right, I am," Steph mumbles into the phone when he brings it up to his ear. Feeling flustered and unsure, he quickly swipes from the “call” over to the camera and takes a breath. He’s really doing this.

 

It feels like the ultimate sacrifice to the king, putting himself in such a dangerous position. Holding the phone behind himself, he tilts it at an angle so it’s tilted up to get his arse, face, and back in the shot. When he snaps the picture, Steph bites his lip for what he assumes is a slightly arousing shot and looks straight at the camera over his shoulder, heart thumping in his chest. The “click” sound on the camera fills the mostly silent room, and he quickly brings it back in front of himself, pressing send before he can stop himself.

 

It shouldn't turn him on, being commanded and ordered by LeBron, embarrassing himself and sending a dirty picture to the fucking king of the league. The king of the whole land. But Steph is so far past the point of caring. “Sent it,” He says softly before setting the phone back on speaker, dropping it down onto the bed so he can attend to his aroused cock.

 

It only takes a second before the other must get it. “God, look at you. Fucking Steph Curry, best three-point shooter in the league, sendin’ me dirty pics,” LeBron groans, and his voice sounds hoarse. Strained. It gives Steph a rush like nothing else, knowing he can do that to him. It makes him impatient, makes him greedy.

 

He presses another finger inside himself, relishing in the slight burn that is disappointingly quick to subside. "I bet you like being on your knees more than you do on the court," LeBron continues. He wants to argue, tell him no, but when Steph’s fingers catch on his prostate, he gasps and loses his concentration.

 

Instead, he imagines that LeBron is there, tugging his fingers out of his asshole and replacing them with his dick in one, smooth, hard thrust. Pounding into him ruthlessly, forcing Steph to clutch onto the headboard, whispering dirty obscenities straight into his ear with nothing between them. "Fuck, I'm going to to–" and Steph has to stop to cry out—it feels too good not to, fingers all the way in. He’s not aware of how loud he's getting until he hears LeBron chuckle again.

 

“Don’t fucking come,” LeBron’s voice sounds so threatening, it’s just driving him crazy. Steph cries out again, almost helpless with it, so fucking desperate. He feels shivers along his spine and right down between his legs where his cock is now tensing proudly, arched and aching as he strokes himself.

 

Steph lets out a groan, can't help it. He’s so close, and he doesn’t know how much longer he can go. “Please, LeBron, I can't," He begs desperately, pushing his fingers in harder and pumps his cock faster as he brings himself closer to the edge. It's almost painful how fast his hands are moving but he can't bring himself to slow down.

 

"Not until I say, bitch, you know that. Want you to imagine it, my cock deep inside you, spreading  you open, fucking you, and making you beg me to touch you, to get you off, to let you come on my cock,” LeBron’s voice is definitely breathless now, his tone low and urgent. But Steph is too desperate to come to play his games.

 

His knees are shaking, thighs trembling from holding himself up, and he lets out an annoyed groan. “I’m already fucking begging you,” He grits out, orgasm dancing near its arrival.

 

“Tell me,” LeBron urges, calls up every ounce of the command he has taught Steph to obey instinctively. “Tell me who you’re thinking of and you can come.”

 

The king wants proof of his prince’s allegiance. That much is clear, and the prince is willing to give it to him. “You, I’m thinking of you,” Steph offers, breathless and desperate, and LeBron’s throat tightens on a laugh. The heat of satisfaction under the sound is enough, gives him permission to relax and let the pleasure collecting into inevitability wash waves of heat out into his limbs.

 

Thrusting his fingers in as far as they will go, he hits his prostrate once more and loudly voices his impending orgasm, crying out and breathing heavily. He arches his back as he spills himself and over his stomach. His orgasm is intense and sends flashes of bright white light through his vision, making him shut his eyes reflexively. He still can’t believe this happened. He hears a soft noise on the other end that sounds like someone slamming their first. He wants to believe it was LeBron orgasming too.

 

A few minutes pass as the silence weighs heavily between them. He pulls his fingers out of himself, sitting up slowly and reaching for the box of tissues next to his bed. Once his hands and cock are clean, he picks his phone up, holding it to his ear. "You still there?" He mumbles, rolling his head back and cracking his neck, looking up at the host’s ceiling. He can’t believe he just jerked off and had phone sex on some stranger’s bed, with LeBron James no less.

 

“Steph,” Some of the heat clings to the sound of the other’s name, purrs inadvertent affection. Steph shuts his eyes, smiles at the sound even before he takes a startled breath and says “Yes?” with the high chirp of expectancy under the word.

 

“Go to fucking sleep.” Step’s limbs are gaining weight along with relaxation; it’s hard even to keep himself up so he leans forward on the bed to lie on his stomach, turning his head to press his cheek into the pillow. He keeps the phone at his ear and grabs the pillow with his other arm, hugging it childishly.

 

There’s a pause, Steph considering whether further protest is useful; then a huff of resignation, an inhale, and when he speaks again, sounding chipper, sharp-edged happiness back under his words. “All right. Talk you soon, man.”

 

“Hm,” LeBro offers agreement rather than reciprocation. Steph pauses, waiting for more that they both know isn’t coming -- then there’s another little rush of air, more irritated this time, and “Bye” before there’s the click of the line going dead. It’s finally only. The prince leaves the castle once more, drawbridge closing the king in until next time. It’s unsettling as always.

 

Steph doesn’t move for a minute. Then he shifts the phone from his ear, sets it on the sheets before working his hand free and pulling his shorts up, feeling embarrassed that he had lazily left them down. He’s meticulous about cleaning up, careful to avoid smearing either his clothes or sheets as he does so; but then that’s done, and he can lie back in bed, perfectly flat on the mattress, and blink up at the ceiling again as languid heat suffuses his veins.

 

It’s past one o’clock in the morning when he reaches for the phone, brings it close enough that he can see it and clicks on the Instagram app. He’s feeling curious and overwhelmed, not sure what to feel right now really. It still hasn’t hit him what happened. The panic hits him in the chest suddenly, squeezing and pressing like a truck. What the hell was LeBron going to do with his photo?

 

Trying to calm himself down, he shifts onto his back and holds the phone up a bit, watching as the app opens. He checks Instagram since he knows LeBron frequents it most and looks through his dash. The last time he looked was a few days ago when LeBron was at the parade. But before he gets to LeBron’s page, he sees Christ Paul and Dwayne Wade’s photos, fellow NBA players he happens to follow.

 

 Fuck, they’re on a boat with LeBron. It looks like somewhere tropical-fucking Spain? This can’t be.  IT hits him. There was a fucking nine hour time difference between Spain and California. If it was midnight here—it was almost nine in the morning there. He’s with Chris Paul and Dwayne Wade?

 

He swallows audibly and tightens the hold on his phone. He stays still for a moment, staring in disbelief and waiting for his breathing to steady into inaudibility before he looks at the photo again. It’s the three of them with a bunch of women, good-looking and no doubt looking to get in bed with them. He has to admit they’re beautiful. Yet, he just had phone sex with LeBron, desperate and begging. But on LeBron’s end, it sounded quiet the whole time. He prays to god LeBron was alone when he calls him. His chest tightens once more, and he leans forward suddenly, angrily punching at the bed with his free hand.

 

Ready to toss the phone at the wall, he grits his teeth and swipes down on the app impatiently, trying to find LeBron’s page. There’s a photo of him driving a boat, and one he took of three ladies, complimenting them on how good they look. Different women this time.

 

God dammit. It shouldn’t upset him. He’s nothing to LeBron. They just fuck, something to do when they’re bored and desperate, taking out their frustrations. That’s all this is, all it ever was to him. But the tightening around his throat and hand clenching at his side says otherwise. He can still hear LeBron’s voice ringing in his ears, calling him a slut, a whore, and telling him “he better be tight.”

 

Fuck him. Fuck LeBron. He’s the one calling Steph a slut when he’s on a boat with a bunch of women in another country. He finally leans back onto the bed again, willing his heart beat to slow down once more, and opens up his own Instagram page. They’re not monogamous. It was never officially stated.

 

“Fuck you,” He says to the empty room, tapping open his gallery of photos from earlier in panic. He finds the one his cousin took of him with some tourists who wanted a photo, four attractive women who could pose as models. She took the photo with his phone to mess with him, but he kept it, too lazy to delete it.

 

And apparently he had a use for it after all because Steph immediately posted it to Instagram with a heart and beach emoji, tagging the location as Napa. Before he could rethink his actions and delete it, people had already started to like and comment it, even at one in the morning. God, his fucking fans.

 

Knowing he couldn’t take it back, he finally tossed the phone onto the ground and placed his hands over his eyes, rubbing at his temples. The moment you trust a king is the moment his sword is thrust into your back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Then I saw Dwayne and Chris Paul's video and had to add this at the end.
> 
> Yeah, just wait until you see what happens next. But even I don't know. ha ha.
> 
> Steph is pissed. Will he get his revenge? Did LeBron even do anything? I'd say stay tuned but this isn't my tv channel. It would be on cinemax though.
> 
>  
> 
> Comments and kudos are loved as always. <3


End file.
